


The Holly Wears the Crown

by lazulisong



Series: cats vs werewolves [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cats, Christmas, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Winter Solstice, cats vs werewolves, twelve days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We could ask Peter," says Stiles reluctantly.</p><p>"Peter told Erica the Solstice Queen appeared at sunrise on a white wolf and left presents," says Lydia. "And he told Boyd that if he didn't go to church for the midnight service the Christ Child wasn't going to leave him anything."</p><p>"I guess the two aren't mutually exclusive," says Stiles.</p><p>"He told Isaac that Santa only drank Portland microbrews," says Lydia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollye83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollye83/gifts).



> Shhh. Just go with it.
> 
> I estimate this has about two more thousand words to go but what the hell, I'm trying to do Twelve Days this year anyway.

The problem is that nobody has any idea how werewolves actually celebrate the holidays. Lydia tosses her hair and says, scornful, "There's no evidence of actual werewolf traditions. It's not _genetic_ to celebrate holidays."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue the near-universality of Solstice rituals, closes it again, counts to thirty, and says, "But --"

Lydia points at him. "Evidence suggests they would be most likely to follow the dominant culture's customs," she says.

"What about subcultures like --"

"Yes, that's such a great idea," says Lydia, "let's settle down quietly and _do the opposite of whatever everybody else is doing_ and hope they don't notice us going even crazier every month."

"But they could have secret customs," argues Stiles. Derek has as good as admitted they have weird-ass burial rites, at least, and anyway if you got Deaton in a really good mood he sometimes told stories he'd learned. Google was shockingly unhelpful, except for weird ass original fiction and also Twilight fanfiction. Stiles didn't count the Twilight fanfiction because a) Twilight and b) fake Native bullshittery. If there were Native werewolves, they were keeping themselves severely to themselves. The original fiction was dubious at best, but Stiles had learned to keep an open mind. Sometimes the collective unconscious spit out a correct result, even if that result was badly spelled and involved yiffing.

Whatever, sometimes Stiles couldn't sleep at night and went on the internet, and sometimes Stiles was on the internet and refused to sleep afterward, it was all the same to him.

"We could ask Peter," says Stiles reluctantly.

"Peter told Erica the Solstice Queen appeared at sunrise on a white wolf and left presents," says Lydia. "And he told Boyd that if he didn't go to church for the midnight service the Christ Child wasn't going to leave him anything."

"I guess the two aren't mutually exclusive," says Stiles.

"He told Isaac that Santa only drank Portland microbrews," says Lydia triumphantly.

Stiles rubs his face with his hand. Somehow he was under the impression that even before Peter had fallen off the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down to land in a sticker bush of insanity growing on a hillock of not sane, he had been the one delegated to say things like, "Of course Santa is real, Derek, and if Laura doesn't believe in him _I guess she isn't getting any presents from him this year_ " or "of course the Christ Child is there while we're at service, Laura, where else is the candy coming from?" or "of course the Solstice Queen was there at sunrise, didn't her wolf eat the steaks we left out for him? Look at all the blood on the ground!" Peter is _really convincing_ , is all Stiles is saying.

"We could … ask Derek," he says.

Lydia just looks at him.

"Okay, he did tell Scott that if he didn't get Bs at least in his finals the Solstice Queen was going to leave him wolfsbane biscuits," admits Stiles. "But I think he may have been joking? He does that sometimes. I think. If you count sarcasm and bitter deadpan as joking."

"Stiles," says Lydia, leaning forward, "so help us God we will create a Christmas to remember for these people."

"All right, all right!" says Stiles, holding his hands up protectively. "Except not with mistletoe, because Scott tried to kiss Allison under it and it … didn't end so well."

"Rashes are always so awkward," agrees Lydia.

There's a moment of silence. 

"Peter can probably smell mistletoe, even wrapped up really well," says Stiles sadly.

* * *

Stiles goes home to his dad and the cats, who are engaged in a war against Christmas mainly expressed by knocking over the Christmas tree and playing a complicated game of croquet / lawn bowling / extreme Frisbee with the ornaments. Stiles doesn't actually mind that much, because he was bright enough to put his mom's ornaments somewhere the cats weren't allowed, and knew they weren't allowed. Training cats was nothing compared to werewolves. Stiles was a genius god. 

Lydia had made a list of things to do, split into Things Lydia Is Forced To Take Care of Due To Universal Incompetence of The Male of Both Species, Things Stiles Can Do So the Surprise Won't Be Spoilt, Things Jackson Doesn't Know He's Buying Yet, Things Scott Probably Won't Mess Up, Things Erica, Isaac or Boyd Can Do, Things Derek is Going to Have to Do Because He's the Alpha and is Going to Fucking Suck it Up, and finally, Things Peter is Under No Circumstances Allowed To Do Ever. Stiles' list was twenty items long and involved a projected five hours on Google and a day trip to San Francisco, home of "someone's made it and will sell it to you".

He sets the list on the table and goes to look through the freezer for stuff to collate for dinner. He'd rather make something fresh, of course, but the fridge is full of chilling cookie dough and ingredients he has to do something with soon, and his dad is half-tramping, half-falling into the house even now. It's been a long December, and that's by Stilinski standards.

"Beer?" says Stiles, hoisting one up.

His dad eyes him for a minute. "Why are you giving me beer? What did you break? Are you getting married? Did you get someone pregnant?"

"No," says Stiles, "but if you drink a beer I have another two inches of refrigerator space."

"Fair enough," says his father. He takes the beer from Stiles, opens it and sits down. "Christ, people don't know how to drive."

"Preach," says Stiles, turning back to the freezer. "Hey, what did you have for lunch today?"

"A salad," says his dad into his beer, "a diet Coke, and then Maria shared her lowfat diabetic cookies. I felt like I was living the wild life."

"Awesome," says Stiles, slamming the freezer shut. "I hereby declare it Takeout Night, and offer you the choice of the heart healthy options at Mr King's China Palace, or Domino's."

"Domino's," says his dad instantly. "This isn't convincing me you haven't murdered someone, by the way."

"We're doing a thing at Derek's," Stiles says. "It's a big thing, and I am cooking for it."

"I thought Hale had a kitchen now," says his dad, and grunts when Nick hops up onto his lap and curls up.

"Hale has three ravenous beta wolves and the undead in his house," Stiles reminds him. "If I made it there it would be eaten instantly. Derek would help."

"I miss when I would think you were mixing up reality and your video games again," says his dad wistfully. "That was good times."

"It sure was," says Stiles, pulling out his phone and dialing Domino's. His dad picks up his list and looks at it as Stiles orders a large veggie pizza and breadsticks with marinara sauce.

"Why," begins his dad, and then shakes his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know why you want 'shoes with wolf prints'."

"It's for a surprise," says Stiles, hanging up. Then, "Hey, Mom knew the Hales before, right? Do you remember them ever talking about Christmas plans?"

"Well, they were kind of hippie and vegan," says his dad, "except I guess they weren't vegan after all. I remember her saying that the older girl liked books about solstice traditions." He thought for a minute. "I remember them being really involved in St Bride's."

"Huh," says Stiles. "I thought he was fucking with us again."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the story name, because I had a terrible idea and I wanted to expand upon it. ┐(￣ー￣)┌ There may or may not be a chapter tomorrow because I work Christmas and writing out the chapter would involve me typing on a tablet while eating Christmas dinner with Twin and Brother In Law which ... is not so much different that usual, no. I WILL DO MY BEST. 
> 
> Random fact discovered trolling wiki: Holly berries contain caffeine.

The day that Stiles and his dad go to the city, Derek appears in their kitchen, throws a wadded up piece of paper with unnecessary violence at Stiles' head, says, "Stop putting things on my windshield, Stilinski," and stalks off again.

"What," says Stiles' dad, lifting his head up from his coffee.

Stiles uncrumples the paper to find Grumpy Cat glowering from a festive scene, with "dashing through the -- NO." printed on it.

"That was not actually my fault!" he shouts, sure that Derek can still hear him.

His phone beeps.

YES IT WAS.

Stiles sniggers and puts the print out on the fridge. He'll take the blame for that one, willingly.

He spends the day with a Bluetooth earpiece crammed half way into his auditory canal, arguing with Lydia about Nordic traditions and Irish saints, enjoying his father's company as they wander from shop to shop. His dad peers over his shoulder as he sorts through beeswax candles and says, "But Lydia --" and points at a big one molded like an angel in the back.

"What about that one?" he says.

Stiles gives it a rapid once over, says, "Is there anything in the literature about shaped candles?"

"No, but I wouldn't," says Lydia and then, "There is literally no place within thirty miles that sells good holly in the quantities we require."

"What about the school? There's that big holly tree by the school. Don't you know the groundskeeper?"

"No berries," says Lydia succinctly. " None. I checked. We could go forage at the cemetery but --"

"Yeah," says Stiles gloomily.

"Are you looking for holly?" says his dad. "Because I know a place ---"

"Hang on, Lydia, Dad might have a lead," says Stiles, and fishes out his notebook, pulling out the page that lists requirements for Christmas holly.

His dad scans the list, blinking when he gets to _**NO CEMETERY HOLLY!!! WRONG TYPE OF HALLOWED GROUND!!!!!!!**_ , but not commenting, either. "There's an old homestead in the Reserve," he says. "Your mom and I went hiking once and found it. There were huge holly bushes by the house."

"Hmm," says Lydia, in his ear. "Can your dad find it?"

"Can you find it okay?" says Stiles.

"Sure," says his dad, brightening at the prospect of going out 4by-ing out in the Reserve instead of carrying bags around for Stiles and not being allowed near grill pubs all day. "That's where your mom got her holly every year after that."

"That's so legal," says Stiles.

His dad shrugs. "Good for the bushes."

* * *

They leave the city earlier than they expected, because the winter day is short even in California and Lydia needs the holly sooner rather than later. Stiles has almost everything he needs, and what he hasn't gotten Lydia says she can order online in time. Stiles' dad drives the Jeep up increasingly terrifying and ill-kept roads in the Preserve until they arrive, bumpty bump, at a clearing so far into the Preserve that Stiles is only getting one bar of service on his phone. The cabin is half-falling down, covered with ivy and moss, and the holly bushes tower over it. Stiles hops out of the Jeep and takes a deep breath. The air smells mossy and sweet, a good clean scent. "Yeah, okay," he says to his dad. "This is awesome."

They spend the next hour with clippers and tarps, reaching for the best pieces of holly and leaving several offerings of blood behind them, even with gloves and long pants and boots. Stiles doesn't mind.

"Wasn't there a holly pair by the Hale house?" says his dad, carefully pulling his shirt away from the clutches of the male holly. "Can't you get it from there?"

"If by holly pair you mean matching withered pile of sticks, then yes, there sure is," says Stiles. "There's even some dead leaves on them."

"That's a pity," says his dad. :"Derek's dad was pretty proud of them."

"Yeah," says Stiles, and sighs. He and Lydia are pretty sure that holly must have been a big deal with the Hales when they celebrated solstice or whatever, because whenever the subject came up Derek's eyes went involuntarily to where the poor charred things still stood, and even Peter, when he's nagging Derek about fixing the house up, about not living like a savage, never mentioned removing the stumps. Werewolves can touch holly, unlike mistletoe, and Deaton says that when Derek's mom brought him things for the holiday there would always be holly sprigs on them.

He just -- maybe he could talk Derek into buying new plants next year. Or maybe they could come up here and take cuttings. It would be lucky, taking them from plants that had lived for so long.

* * *

When they get back to the house the cats are sitting on the front porch railing a cold distance from Derek and Isaac, who are sitting on the front porch steps and pretending to ignore them. It's not working out very well. Nick's tail is flicking back and forth, slowly, like he's just waiting for them to make a wrong move.

"Oh come on,:" says Stiles, opening the back of the trunk. "The cats are literally one tenth your size. Less than a tenth, for Princess. What is your problem with them?"

Isaac screws up his face and says, "They don't like us."

"Yes, because they think you're predators," says Stiles's dad. "Nick, get down from there, stop clawing."

Nick Fury stops in mid claw and hops to the ground, with every air of having planned to stop right then anyway. Tiny Princess follows after him to wind around Stiles's ankles and purr and try to make him break his leg by tripping over her and the packages.

"The predators can get the holly," says Stiles's dad, "we've already bled for your Christmas today."

Derek stands up and goes to the Jeep. His nose flares, taking in the clean sharp smell of the cut holly. "Where did you get this from?" he says, lifting up a perfect branch with three bunches of blood-red berries shining in the dark green of the leaves.

"There's an old homestead in the Reserve," says Stiles, clattering down the steps again. "Which I didn't know about but apparently my mom raided it for holly every year?" He looks over Derek's shoulder and adds, "Careful with the berries, if we lose too many of them Lydia is literally going to make us suffer death by a thousand holly prickles."

"We -- my family had property up there, for a long time," says Derek, abruptly. "We only moved closer to town later on."

Since Derek's property was like, fifteen miles out of town and terrifyingly isolated, Stiles couldn't imagine it being considered closer at all, unless -- "Oh," he says, "Do you think this is from --"

"We've always had holly by our houses," says Derek, placing the holly back with reverent hands, and then aggravatingly refuses to speak another word, no matter how Stiles cajoles, all through getting the holly transferred to the garage and eating slapped together sandwiches afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Colton Haynes once tweeted Tyler H a picture of Grumpy Cat chirping him about the resemblance. I regret nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ... seem to be writing a fic where not only are Stiles and Lydia forever bros, they are the actual parents of the Hale pack. WHATEVER, THEY ARE MY TEENWOLF BROTP. Ugh once again very little Sterek tho, it's a slow burn or whatever I guess? orz

The holly stabs Stiles repeatedly as he as Lydia tie it up into bundles and wreaths. If he was a blood mage or whatever lie Supernatural had told him about working with magic, he'd be kind of worried that that holly was taking out power in advance or something. As it is, Deaton says blood magic is possible but so stupendously, hilariously difficult for people who don't spend years learning it in very specific horrible situations that doing it accidentally is probably the least of their worries. Like, you totally have to really specifically want to be an angry, hateful person, or want something so much and so pureheartedly that you're willing to die for it. .

"What about Peter, though?" Stiles had asked.

Deaton pulled a terrible face like he didn't want to think about Peter. Which, Stiles completely understood, nobody wanted to think about Peter, probably especially Peter. "Werewolves are different," he said finally.

Well, no shit, but that was all Stiles had been able to get out of him. Deaton took his role as mysterious Watcher way the fuck too seriously.

Now, though, so many holly prickles have stabbed Stiles that he looks like he's been crosshatched with red ink, and Lydia, of course, has yet to get a single scratch.

"If you'd only pay attention," says Lydia, tying up a small bunch with a red ribbon, "you wouldn't be scratched so much."

Stiles reflects that if only he wasn't the one separating out the branches and tying them up with twine before she did the actual artistic work, he wouldn't be getting scratched, either, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut. "Are we putting holly on everybody's present?" he says instead. They've made sheaves already for everybody's house, even the Argents, and smaller ones for Derek to take to the cemetery and the patch of ground where Laura sleeps. Now they're making small ones, with thin white and red ribbons, to put on the packages as they wrap them. Princess is lying in the pile of rejected branches, curled asleep as if she was on Stiles' favorite black hoodie instead of a bunch of stickery leaves.

"It's our theme," says Lydia flatly, giving him a look.

Stiles sighs, rescues a roll of ribbon from Nick's curious nose, and continues to tie up holly.

\---

There are three separate piles for the presents going to the Hale house: Christmas day, Christmas Eve after church, and Christmas morning at sunrise. The Christmas Eve stuff is mostly candy and pajamas, and all they have to do is give it to Derek so he can put it out on the staircase after everybody is dragged bodily to church by Peter. Stiles is kind of looking to going to a real church service, especially one where, according to Boyd, who also goes to St Bride's, they give you candles and let you hold them all service, and then, at the end, you actually get to light them on fire.

"This is a terrible idea," says his dad, when he hears about it.

"I know!" says Stiles happily. "Why aren't we Episcopalian, dad?"

His dad gives him a look and Stiles says, "So anyway, what sort of delicious lowfat treat would you like the Christ Child to bring you? Don't say whiskey."

"Ugh," says his dad, sadly.

The Christmas day stuff is already at the house, since it's mostly stuff that everybody knows they're getting, like Derek bought a PS3 for the house and Lydia has bought everybody sweaters from Ireland and Stiles has made all the cookies and candy, all of it, forever. They might not know individually what they're getting, but they know that they're getting something from Stiles and Lydia, or from one of the others. Just ordinary, Christmas things.

The Christmas morning stuff is a little more complicated, because Stiles and Lydia are trying to keep it a dark secret from everybody except possibly Stiles' dad, who comes home from work to pick his way through silver and white paper spread on the floor and Stiles and Lydia reading on their tablets and computers and sometimes watching Person of Interest or a BBC show while they make things. Deaton says the solstice gifts were always handmade, so Stiles and Lydia have been hunkered down knitting and sewing and building while they quiz each other on their homework.

Stiles lies awake sometimes and wonders if he feels sad or not that he's no longer into Lydia Martin as a romantic ideal, because this is totally the getting-to-know-you montage before they awkwardly discover their feelings for each other and break apart out of confusion.

Well, whatever, Lydia Martin is his eternal goddess and now she's also one of his best friends, so Stiles has a spasm of maturity and decides he's come out ahead, even if he will never be Mr Lydia Martin and have three beautiful children with her.

And this is pretty cool as it is, even if Lydia had made a point of telling him not to make Derek a sweater.

"What," he says, staring at her.

Lydia taps a few times on her tablet and pulls up a page, virulently pink and floral, that informs him that if he gives his man a sweater before he gets a ring, he'll lose the man and what's worse, the yarn.

Stiles can feel the blush crawling up from his chest to his cheeks and ears and forehead, an inevitable tide of heat. He wants to die. 

Lydia laughs and laughs and laughs. She snorts a little as she does, and Stiles loves her so much he thinks he could burst open with it.

"You are a dick, Martin," he shouts at her, putting his face into the couch pillow in an effort to either smother himself to death or cool his flaming cheeks.

Lydia falls off the armchair, still laughing, and narrowly avoids landing on Tiny Princess's tail. "The look on your face," she gasps, climbing up again. She wipes her eyes and then manages to sober up a little. "Seriously, Stilinski --"

"Avoidance is working great for me so far!" says Stiles into the pillow. "I love it! It's my favorite besides you!"

"Nothing is your favorite like me," says Lydia, and Stiles sighs, because she's really, really right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So you can literally go to Google and say to it I NEED A HYMN ABOUT LIGHT](http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/l/i/lightaft.htm) and one will come up. This is not counting the weird one by whatshisbutt Crowley.

They finish the last of the presents -- a scrapbook for Isaac -- at like 2:59 AM Christmas Eve, fall face first onto his bed and get woken up by his dad at the actual asscrack of dawn. It probably says something about the continuing tragedy of Stiles' life that his father wakes him up when he's sharing a bed with Lydia Martin by trying to pull a blanket over them, and even more that his first thought is 'ugh Lydia why hair up my nose'.

"This is the worst," he says out loud. He's got his arm around Lydia's waist and he feels nothing except some warmth and the urge to fall back to sleep. It's like when he would take naps with Scott in first grade. He's super depressed right now. "No, we're up, we gotta get to the Hale house."

"You sure?" says his dad. "I'm not that tired, I could drive it out."

Lydia says, "Your octopus habits offend me, Stilinski," and sits up. Her hair is falling everywhere in her face, and she has a sheet-mark on her face. She looks ridiculous.

"Your hair was in my ear," says Stiles, rolling out the other side of the bed with a thump. He yawns, jaw cracking, and says, "It's a good thing this isn't Midsummer's Day, we'd be fucked."

"Language," says his dad, and then, "Come on, it snowed last night, so you'd better get going. I don't want you trying to hurry to get out there and wrapping yourself around a tree."

"Festive," agrees Stiles.

They stumble downstairs and drink the coffee Stiles' dad has made for them and eat the cinnamon rolls Scott's grandma sent over yesterday. Stiles' dad pours more coffee into commuter mugs for them and Lydia picks up her costume -- a long gauzy sweep of muslin and a white scarf -- and they trudge out to the car.

It's snowed overnight, not hard, maybe an inch lying softly on the ground and sifted over the trees. Stiles' dad has pushed the snow off Stiles' Jeep and warmed it up for them already, so they drive carefully down the road toward the Hale house. In some places they're the first people to have driven over the snow, and in others they can see the black lines of the tire tracks in front of them. Lydia is doing her makeup as they wait at stop lights and stop signs.

"It's literally five fifteen am," says Stiles.

"That's no reason to be barbarous," says Lydia, smudging green shadow on the edge of her brow bone.

"You think Erica's gonna do her make up at five fifteen?"

"You think I care about what she does?" says Lydia. She puts all her mysterious bits and bobs in the case and sits up, watching as they pull up the driveway to the Hale house and park. There's no way the werewolves don't know they're there. That's not the point. Stiles puts the wolf print makers on over his shoes and takes a step, testing his balance. The snow is perfect for this, just wet enough that the prints will take well. His tracks are black against the whiteness of the snow.

Ideally Lydia would be barefoot for this, but she's not a werewolf and there's only so much they can do to pretend. She flings the white shawl around her head and takes one of the baskets from the back of the Jeep. Stiles takes the other basket and they creep closer to the house. A light comes on -- Isaac's room, predictably. Derek or Peter is probably -- they hope -- standing in the dark waiting to stop Isaac from clattering out and ruining the surprise.

The point is not that everybody knows very well it's Stiles and Lydia. The point is that here, on the darkest night, it's possible to believe in something. They stand in front of the house and Stiles clears his throat nervously. "Ready?" he whispers.

Lydia sniffs. "I was born ready," she says. "One, two, three--" and takes a deep breath and begins to sing. "Light after darkness, gain after loss --"

The lights of the house begin to turn on as Stiles joins in on the next line. Their voices sound small and weak in the coldness of the dawn air. Stiles thinks he can see Derek coming down the stairs in the dark of the entry way, waiting for them to finish. He looks around as he sings, and almost stops singing in shock.

Lydia keeps singing, even as she looks at what Stiles has seen and her eyes widen. She clutches back at Stiles' hand, her fingers cold even through her mittens.

The lady looks back at them from where she stands by the holly pair; she's dressed in white like Lydia, but the white of her dress is like the light on the snow. She's wearing light in her hair, and Stiles thinks she looks a little like his mother had. Maybe, he thinks, she looks a little like everybody's mother. There's a wolf beside her, bigger than Peter or Derek in their lupine forms, white as the moon. It sniffs curiously at the holly trees.

The lady smiles at them and puts one finger to her mouth. She touches the wolf's ruff and mounts it in a single movement, looking back again and smiling at them before the wolf takes off with a spring of its powerful muscles, into the snowy woods.

Lydia's voice dies away and they stand there for a minute, holding each other's hands. Derek's opening the door, and Erica is bringing out cocoa and toast for them. "Was it real?" whispers Lydia finally.

"I don't know," whispers Stiles. "Does it matter?"

"No," says Lydia, pushing back her scarf. "No."

The house is lighting up, the windows blazing out against the darkness, and in the warm light Stiles thinks he sees green leaves on the holly pair. Not many, but a start, stretching out to promise protection to the house and the people that live there.

It's going to be a good year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm sorry about the slight delay of the last chapter, I ended up starting my birthday sweater and there may have been a terrible Bejeweled clone game that ate my head, I admit nothing.


End file.
